The Weekend That Wasn't
by WhyAye
Summary: What if there had been no dead body and Lewis and Hobson got to go to their opera weekend together? Here's one possible answer, based on the fact that one episode and two months later, they didn't seem any closer to finding romance. One-shot.


Laura Hobson leaned back on the pillows, clicked off the television, and let the tears come. It was time to give in to the hopeless feeling that had been rising, rising, gradually throughout the evening and now was drowning her. She had had such hopes for this night, had read so much into their plans for the weekend together. _What a bloody fool_.

As she had expected, his attention had been fully occupied for most of the evening: first, by the wonderful performance and then the delightful picnic dinner during the interval. But she had thought once that was all over, he would do something, say something, that would show he was ready to move their relationship forward. Why else were they here, after all?

But the answer to that question was plain. They were here to see The Fairy Queen. No other reason existed. They were friends. They would remain friends, and nothing more.

He had proven that when they stood together in the corridor outside her room. The moment was perfect: they both looked elegant in their formal wear; the evening had been enchanting; the hotel quiet and romantic. He had held her hand in the taxi and as they walked back to their rooms, something he had never done before. When they reached her room, he stood and faced her, gazing down at her with a little smile. When he leaned forward, she closed her eyes and tipped up her head, waiting for his kiss.

But that kiss never came. She heard the click of the lock and realized he had been leaning over to open the door for her. Wildly embarrassed, she fled into her room, shutting the door on his quiet "Goodnight" and flinging herself face down on the bed. How could she have been so wrong about his feelings? She could only hope his unawareness of her meant he had been unaware that she had just made a colossal fool of herself.

At last she had gotten undressed, hanging up the blue silk gown she had bought for the occasion and tucking her spiked shoes into their box. In a fit of optimism, she had also bought a short, silk nightgown, but she ignored it, instead donning the tee shirt she planned to wear jogging in the morning. She had turned on the television, hoping the distraction would keep her from thinking too much, but it hadn't helped. And the more she thought, the more she realized she had misread him all along. That was when she gave up fighting her tears.

She sobbed until her ribs ached, and the pile of crumpled tissues threatened to cascade off the bed. She found herself wondering what he was doing now, and pushed that thought out of her head. He would be sleeping, of course, blissfully unaware of her weary heart and reddened eyes.

She had been in love with him from the very start. She knew that now, though she hadn't realized it until that day she saw him in that hideous shirt, looking tanned and rested, his first day back from the Caribbean. Why had she wasted all those years waiting for him? He was never going to think of her as anything other than his oldest friend. And she would spend the rest of her life alone, not wanting anyone else's companionship, and having to settle for simply being his friend.

Which was, after all, better than nothing, she decided. They had been "just friends" for years now, and were completely comfortable with each other. There was no one else she could talk to in the way she could talk to him, telling him exactly what she thought without having to be careful about her words or his feelings. She would simply have to wall up the part of her heart that was hurting and get on with things. Tomorrow they would go jogging and swimming, enjoying all the facilities of this lovely little hotel and the quiet Sussex countryside. Nothing need change in their relationship; she would accept that and continue as they had done for years.

Setting her mouth firmly, she gathered up the tissues and threw them away, turned back the comforter, switched off the light, and closed the door on her hope.

O * O * O

Robbie Lewis leaned back on the pillows, wide awake in the dark room. What had he done wrong? She had turned and bolted from him so abruptly, fairly slamming the door, without even a "goodnight." He had thought the evening had gone so well, but he must have missed something. They had both thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful production; the picnic hamper had been packed with delicacies and a bottle of champagne; and she had let him hold her hand in the taxi on the way back to the hotel.

He had never dared take her hand like that before. They had been friends for so long, his greatest fear was that it was the only way she could see him. She certainly hadn't resisted. But that must have been his mistake. He presumed too much about their relationship. He had hoped this weekend would be their chance to move forward, to step out of merely being friends and into something more intimate. What a fool he'd been, reading too much into her acceptance of him and of this weekend together.

He had hoped she would invite him into her room, where they could continue their conversation sitting comfortably. He could tell her shoes were hurting her, neither of them was used to dressing up so much. But now it was clear she had no intention of letting him get that close. She probably regretted letting him take her hand, probably thought he might see it as an invitation to take further liberties. He would never rush their relationship, scared that he would drive her away if he pushed too hard.

Yet that was exactly what had happened, wasn't it? Holding her hand had been a mistake. She'd inferred more than he intended from it, probably thought he'd be trying to kiss her next. Not that he wouldn't have liked to, but what a disaster that would have been. She most likely would have slapped him and he would have deserved it, moving in on her without permission. At least, to this point, he hadn't done any real damage to their friendship.

Their friendship. He simply had to accept that that was what they had and nothing more. The last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize it. He valued her companionship, her advice, her ability to listen to him and help him sound out his worries and problems. He could tell her anything, never having to be careful about his words or her feelings. All he could do now was continue on as they had for years, hoping someday she'd be relaxed enough around him to let him get closer.

He sighed sadly. He'd had such hopes for this weekend. Tomorrow they would go jogging or swimming together and they would still be friends. Only friends. He would stifle the swelling of his heart when she was near, would resist the urge to put an arm around her shoulders, to kiss her hair, her cheek, her lips. He would not destroy what they had, even though it meant he had to box up another piece of his heart. A neat, surgical operation: his heart would be a little smaller but life would go on.

He lay alone in the dark and waited for the anesthesia of sleep.


End file.
